


'...you're mine': a collection of eve & villanelle stories

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Death, F/F, Gen, Longing, Love, Sex, etc. - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-03-30 02:32:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 13,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: drabbles & short one-shots // on-going // during & post S2 // shifting pov // A place for all my tiny thoughts and half-baked feelings





	1. forever by way of finality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v.

//

It's cold.

That's what you feel all over you, after a fashion, after a strange second of absolute agony – you feel cold. And you swear that you blink, an effort that takes too much of your energy, but you do it all the same. You blink and you are surrounded by snow.

Oh, well, no wonder you are cold.  
She must have gotten you here.

And then she turns you over, grins at you, and she is outlined by the sun – bright as everything, brighter than an exploding star, brighter and brighter until you think you've gone blind. And you are freezing now, chilled tremors rolling through your muscles, so bad that your teeth ache and there's a fog drifting from your lips.

She spins a lot of tales to you then. Of meals you'll have. Of dreams you'll share. Of protection and of adoration. Of a home, with lies and truths dovetailed into one another, almost perfect.

It's almost perfect. Almost.

But it's so cold. That's all you can feel – unending cold covering your legs and your arms, sitting heavily on your chest. And she pokes you. She prods you. She takes her hands and forms you, pushes the clay of your silly mind until you look like someone she can know.

Someone she can love.

_“I thought you were special.”_

You are, though. You are wicked and wise. You are reckless and amazing. You are strong, stronger than all the ones before. You are special, with her or without her. You are the master of this moment, you hold all the cards, you have taken this power back and you are... you are...

...you are so damn cold.

Oh, well, no wonder.  
She must have gotten you here.

Alaska by way of Rome. Death by way of delusion. Forever by way of finality.

//

**[end]**


	2. and so you sink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> villanelle p.o.v.

//

She catches your eye and there's no time for pondering, not really. This is what moving on looks like, feels like, and so that's what you do. You once read something about a shark, how it cannot stop moving or it will die, and maybe that's how you live, too.

Sink or swim. These are the choices and so you always choose you.

She's pretty. Big dark eyes and beautiful hair to lose your fingers in. She blushes when you run your gaze down the pale center of her chest. She moans into your mouth, warm touches to your back, and she doesn't hesitate to come for you. No coaxing. No chasing. No fight, no fuss, just her body underneath your own, trembling and easily taken.

You won't sink. That's not who you are. You swim. You power through.

She curls around you after. You let her, soft sheets hanging off her hips, and you think of where you'll go next. You think of the steps that'll take you from this hotel room, out of this building. Will you steal a car and drive? Will you chance a flight? Maybe go underground for a while, mask after mask on your face, until you blend in with the nothingness that is everyone else.

You swim. That's what you do. That's how you live. 

She falls asleep and you sigh, idle hands smoothing over her back, and you stare at a distant point, stare until it takes shape, and fine lines dip and curve and paint a picture and it looks a lot like--

You shake the girl awake, ignoring her startled slumbering expression, and ask her to leave. You don't watch her go. You don't care if she leaves behind anything, ushering her out the door with your sudden silence.

And you lay back down. And you feel anger knot up in your gut, hard like the scar you will forever carry. And you grit your teeth as you dig your nails into your skin. And you stare at a distant point, unnerving in your focus, and then you press your palm firm against yourself and everything looks a lot like--

You are so turned on, so wet and ready, and the sounds that careen out of you make you so mad. You squeeze your eyes shut and see blood, you see the glint of silver as it comes swinging down, you feel her breath coast over your lips, you see her anger and her pain and her horrible wanting. You see her, taking shape before you, walking away and oh how you ache, how you fucking ache, how you ache and need and hate and burn burn burn.

\--everything looks a lot like Eve and so you sink.

//

**[end]**


	3. it goes like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> villanelle p.o.v.; italics from a song by Vast

//

_...if you knew how much I love you, you would run away..._

It's a wonder that the two of you ever found one another again. You disappeared and you left her for dead. Of course she is tougher than that. Of course she lived, somehow, and of course she found you one day. She's always finding you.

You went to Russia for a while. A dirty and shameful journey, stumbling from gravestones to gravel roads, names on a ledger somewhere. It didn't mean anything, even though some small part of you hoped – whatever that means to you, whatever hope means to someone who doesn't barter in daydreams much anymore – to find an answer for who you are. Why you are. What you are.

And then you did your own kind of freelance, dull as dishwater, for money but to avoid too many prying eyes. You missed the flash. You craved a show or two. But living is better. Live to fight another day and all that. And then you took a vacation, buried your feet into white sand and your tongue into as many women as you could, and you drank and you ate endlessly and you took on so many new names.

It's been months. Lots of months. You didn't keep watch on her because you didn't care. You don't care. And she doesn't care, she made that very obvious, so you didn't search her name and you didn't put your ear to the ground. You didn't do a damn thing because why should you? She owed you a bit of pain, didn't she? For breaking your heart – whatever that means to you, whatever a heart means to someone who doesn't truly have one – isn't that right?

And then she finds you. 

She looks at you. Looks through you. You tell her to take a picture, it'll last longer, and you smile coldly into your drink as she just looks and looks and looks. But then she is walking towards you and your muscles gear up and you wait for it; you wait for the blow to come, for the consequences to your actions, perhaps a bullet in you this time and you'll both go on wounding one another for the rest of your days.

But no, no bloodshed. She just orders a drink from the bar and sits beside you.

You can see her reflection in the bottles against the wall. And you can feel when she moves her arm, the brush of a sleeve upon your own. She drinks and keeps her gaze straight ahead. Silent except for breathing. Both of you breathing and drinking and waiting.

Of course, you've always been waiting for Eve. Always and forever waiting for Eve.

You had forgotten what this feels like. This mix of anticipation and anger, this longing that draws you to her even as you want shove her away. You had forgotten to forget is probably the more honest thought, but what is honesty to you – just another game, just another tool, just another thing you cannot fully understand. And no one knows this better than the woman sitting beside you, sipping her drink and staying silent.

There's a ring of condensation forming under your glass now. Somehow your eyes are fixed on her, unabashedly staring, and when she swallows, so do you. Oh yes, you had forgotten and by that you mean you had forgotten nothing at all, and when she gets up suddenly, you have to stop yourself from reaching out – as though she were a mirage about to flutter and then fade.

She places something on the bar and walks away. You don't look until she leaves. And you pocket the key card with a shaking hand.

It feels like fear. It feels like desire, too.

/

_...but when I treat you bad, it always makes you want to stay..._

It goes like this for a while. You, in some city on some job or maybe just killing time, and then she shows up. Quietly invading your space, like she owns you somehow, and you scoff and you sneer and you say taunting things, terrible things, but nothing shakes Eve anymore.

If anything, all your words and deeds just serve to make her colder somehow.

Colder. More calculating. Hard but still with a sting, a bit of hot poison that has to be pulled out after hours of chilly pretense, and you tell yourself that you'll get the upper hand again, that you'll pin her down and take instead of being taken, that you're in charge of all of this. But it goes like this: she finds you, once again, and rattles you by her nearness, and then she leaves and you follow... you follow her lead, to a room paid for by blood and secrets, to a bed that neither of you claim but defile all the same... you let her take it all out on you... and you want her to, you want her to hurt you, you want her to tear you up and drag you down...

Her damage becomes your domain, where you hang your hat and feel your body finally relax. Her rage is now your sweetest relief, warming you when you've been frozen for so long. Her lips never touch yours, but you feel kissed all over – bruises like affection, pain like devotion when she holds you tighter, when she steals all your air, when she presses harder and harder against your chest – and you have to stop yourself... you have to stop yourself from pulling her into your arms, from being so damn in love that you cannot stand it, from begging her to stay with every dark gaze she sends your way.

You watch her dress. You watch her check her phone. You stare at her mouth, feel your hips twitch at the sight of her spine straightening. You ache and you stare and you watch her slip you off of her mind like a piece of paper drifting to the ground. You listen to the door shut, strain to hear her steps as she goes further and further away.

Her teeth have left a mark on your thigh, sharp pinpoints becoming a constellation of lust and horrible yearning. You wish it could last, all the ways in which she has branded you; you wish there was more than one pale pink scar with her name on it. You want. You wish. You ache.

And it goes like this. Over and over again.

//

**[end]**


	4. the last gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v.

//

She looks at it. Pushes at it. Feels the burn and the shock and then does it again. Once more, for good measure, and then she rubs at her eyes, stumbles backwards and to her bed – her empty, unmade bed – and she sleeps for another eight hours.

She feels listless. She feels numb. It would be normal to feel jumpy or to feel anger. She's used to both of those feelings, she expected those feelings to flood over her and then she'd drown in them. But no, instead, she feels... nothing.

Devoid of things. Blank. A shell of whoever she was but with nothing new taking its place. An absence of feeling. An absence of anything.

The funds she has will run out soon, but that's a bridge for another time. The man she married was a grizzled mess when she got back to London, set up and stitched up and over all the chaos she had brought into his life.

He cupped her face, the last time she saw him, and his watery gaze washed over her.

“I hope you will be okay. I wish I could make you okay.”

Like a problem to fix. Like an abnormality to eradicate. A glitch in the system of life. But she had enough tact and common sense inside of her to reach up, to hold his hand in her own, and sigh into the air that surrounded them.

“I know.”

Love is like that, that's what everyone says. Love is forgiving. Love is kind. Love knows when to walk away. Love isn't insanity and pain and darkness. Love isn't whatever she keeps on seeking out, whatever sent her into a world she couldn't handle, whatever has her here – alone, sleeping the days and nights away, prodding a gunshot wound while a mirror stands silent.

Love isn't this.

/

She moves and breathes and exists. She finds work and blends in with the masses. She smiles, one corner of her lips lifting, and she eats and she drinks and she talks with people. It's all a bit of a sham, but this is what you do when you come back down to the bitter earth.

You stop chasing fantasies. You stop dreaming in darkness. That's what everyone says she should do and so she does it.

She moves. She breathes. She exists. And she doesn't open up the books, doesn't glance at old files, doesn't reach out to anyone she once knew – friends or foes – and she doesn't spend time looking back either. She doesn't think of where she's been, how she was left to die, who left her there and why she even went that way to beginning with.

And if the urge ever gets too strong, if she falters, that's when she stands there – poking, prodding, drawing discomfort from a tender space – and she'll gasp and she'll grimace and the urge will fade.

And she moves.  
And she breathes.  
And she exists.

That's it. That's all there is.

/

It's merely happenstance, so much time seems to have passed, and she is at the grocery store and there he is, still looking like a child stuck in an adult body. She shuffles over, nodding her head at whatever he is holding – stock still in this aisle of frozen foods.

“Good choice. Spicy.”

Kenny nods and blinks and puts it back in the case, as if the words she spoke broke a spell the food had put him under. He looks at her and then looks away so many times, until she gives him an out. That's what she can do these days, in the midst of feeling nothing at all, she can give the people who once cared about her an excuse to finally cut all the ties, to free themselves from her.

“It doesn't have to be weird, okay? I'm fine, you're fine, all is well. Right?”

He clears his throat. He nods once. His shoulders relax just a fraction.

“Right, okay.”

And that's it, that's one more connection cut, one more link to her past gently severed. And she smiles, just the corner, and she walks away. Walks steadily and simply, walks to the edge of the aisle and then he calls out her name. She doesn't look back, she doesn't do that anymore, but she pauses and she waits...

“Uh, she's... she's dead. Just thought you should know, if you didn't already. That's all.”

...and then she walks away.

/

The mirror stands silent, observing her naked body, looking quietly at where hips meet thighs and at what was once strong that now sags a bit. Reflecting lines that have softly formed – where she used to laugh more – and highlighting the ones that were carved into her skin. Hard places. Shadowed places. And her head tilts to one side, gaze glazing over, seeing past the image and to the bones, to the sinew, to the erratic beating of her heart.

And she doesn't want to think about why she is suddenly crying. It's useless to know, useless to care, everything is so utterly useless.

And so she places her fingertips to the last gift Villanelle ever gave her, still sore and still raw and still the only thing that Eve can ever see.

And she presses in. And she presses in harder. And she digs her nails in and she cries and she draws blood and she cries. And she cries until she topples to the floor.

And she feels the opposite of nothing now.

//

**[end]**


	5. far from the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v.

//

You stomp your way through the snow drifts, air crystalline in your lungs, and you have to pause every so often to shove your nose into the scarf around your neck. Warmth fills you up, momentarily, and then you can go again.

You walk every day. Sometimes she comes with you. Most times, she likes to stay inside. Which is funny to you, she's the one who can get so bored. Bored and belligerent. But today is a good day – the sun is out, the skies are clear, you can see thin gray tendrils of smoke weaving their way up from the chimney, and she promised you an apple crumble.

Today is a good day.

Every once in a while, as you trudge along, you get more winded than normal. You strain and suck at the air around you. You tremble with a pain that seemingly won't subside. You feel weightless then, like a stiff breeze could blow you away. Away from here, away from everything and everyone.

It passes, though, and you go home. Like always.

/

She likes to feed you. It's not your favorite thing – her grinning with a spoon in her hand – but it's hard not to indulge her. She did make this for you, after all. No need to be rude. And she asks how it is (good, it's always good) and she makes a point of sharing your utensil, because she likes having her mouth where your mouth was. It's the same with cups. Same with lipstick. She tried it with your toothbrush but you stopped that quickly.

She likes to take care of you. Likes to rub your shoulders and your feet. Likes to quote movies at you all night long. Likes to dance with you, music hummed beneath her tongue as she dips you and twirls you. Likes dressing you up, though neither of you go anywhere these days, but she drags her palms over your fancy hips and calls you sexy. Likes to curl around you in bed, legs over legs and arms around your waist, keeping you closer than close.

She likes to hunt, too. For days on end, she'll go into the wilderness. She comes back with blood streaked over her cheeks and animal fat wedged under her nails, eyes lit up as she carves and cuts the meat. She tells you about deer, stalking them, and the almost black abyss of their eyes. She recounts a bear, charging at her and the shots it took to take it down, too heavy to move so she plunged a knife past the thick fur and past the layers of flesh.

You listen to her and feel a shudder roll up and down your spine.  
You grab your stomach, a little to the left, and hold on.

And then it passes. And she is your home. Like always.

/

You walk into town, your once a month journey, and sometimes you think you see faces you recognize. That man there, smiling over a cup of coffee, nodding at you amicably as you move past. That woman by the door of the bar across the street, staring at you, hard lines where a smile once might have been.

You can feel their looks, you can feel them watching, and your chest caves in under the weight of it. You can feel them waiting for something, waiting for you to speak or come near, and you start to sweat and you feel the sharpest of bites to your body, enough to double you over, enough to make you feel like you'll faint and your vision starts to swim and tunnel...

And you blink. And there's the sun, though it is brighter than before.  
And you can smell the dirt, smell primroses and posies in the distance.  
And if you really stretch out your senses, you can feel your own blood leaving you and sinking into the porous, ancient stones that hold you.

...but there she is, worried gaze flitting over you, and she kisses you – like she has a million times before, right right right – and you fall into her arms, let her cradle you like a scared child, and she smells of gunpowder as she carries you through the streets, into the woods, and far from the world.

//

**[end]**


	6. this is what you wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> villanelle p.o.v.

//

This...

you roll your body upwards and into her embrace, into her hot mouth, into the gnashing of her pretty white teeth, and you've known few pleasures in this life like this one – really and truly – and you let her know the only way you know how, by gripping her arms, by the breath beautifully caught in your chest, by moaning her name until it is the only thing you know how to say, all the other words you've ever spoken are just gibberish compared

is...

she loves you, you can feel it with her eyes on you and her hand in yours, you know it as well as you know your own body and your body always tilts towards her, she's the sun to your bloom, and you open up whenever she is near you and you love her, too, you love her to distraction, you love her more than any husband ever could, and you'll take care of her now, you'll keep her safe and you'll lick the blood from her hands and you'll show her all the ways in which she is dark and oh so deadly and there's no need to hide ever again

what...

you laugh at her, laugh with her, and she slides into your lap, runs her fingers through your hair and she holds a knife to your throat and you are giddy, you are overwhelmed in the best of ways by her, and you've made a home with her – with dinners and movie nights and fights and fucking – and you have forgotten when boredom feels like because you only feel her, all around you all the time, filling up the void and chasing away the dullness, her kisses raining down on you, washing away all the stupid things that used to trip you up, and you laugh and she laughs and she cuts you up so sweetly

you...

watching it come down, slicing into his head like a melon, and something amazing is set loose within you and she is a furious angel wielding a surefire demise, and she is there for you, to save you, to shake off the shackles of a life never meant to be and disappear into the shadows with you, and she is stunning, so utterly gorgeous, and you want to crawl to her, you want to worship at her red stained feet, you want to turn the sentiment around and give her everything, everything inside of you – the emptiness, the wounds, the sadness, the story of all that you are, you want to give it to her and let her set you free, finally finally finally

wanted...

instead, you try and you beg and you demand and she slips away, she slips as swiftly out of your grasp as she came into it, and you'd like to tell her that it hurts, you'd like for her understand what you are offering her, and isn't this what love is – having, keeping, belonging – and didn't she want to break the chains around her, didn't she long for this, linger when all others fled, and you gave that to her, you gave her the chance to be free, just like you ache to be... isn't that love... isn't that what she wanted, too?

//

**[end]**


	7. all these mistakes were made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v. // thanks to 'mourning sound' by grizzly bear

//

You probably had a million dreams, hazy like the sun that slowly catches on your edges as it goes down, you probably had a million dreams as you lay there dying.

You and the dirt. You and a bug or two. You and your life, pouring out to mingle with the footfalls of a million other dreams – you and antiquity, you and ancient warriors, you and your monument to passion and pride.

_Bet you didn't think I could. Bet you didn't think I would. When will you ever learn, baby? I'll always surprise you..._

“La Vedi? Qualcuno vada a controllare...”

You probably dream in tongues. You probably dream in riddles. You probably dream of her, still still evermore. You probably won't live to see any of this ever again. You should have come here for a vacation instead of work, you should have eaten a lot and drank much more, you should have told Niko you were sorry, you should have held Bill's gaze one second longer.

You probably dream too much.

“Penso di sentire un impulso, chi ha un telefono? Chiama un'ambulanza!”

You probably shouldn't care, your heart now made of Roman dust and Alaskan ice. You probably won't remember any of this anyway and so what does it matter?

Angels, tanned and bright white, come to carry you away. And your eyes open just enough to see blue sky, swimming over your face, and the tickle of something out of sight, something out of reach. 

You probably think it is her, just like always – always out of reach, always out of sight; a figment, that's what she is and now you rest in her imagination. You probably always did, though.

_Bet you didn't think I'd die. Bet you didn't think this through at all. When will you ever learn, baby? I'll always do just what you don't want..._

You probably should have kissed her. At least once. At least one wonderful, horrific time – on her bloody lips, on her tender thighs, on the ends of her murderous fingertips.

“Sbrigati, sbrigati, sbrigati...”

Yes, faster. Yes, hurry up. Yes, be quick. Yes, let's go somewhere better, somewhere lush and green, somewhere magical instead of somewhere built of so much misery. Yes... like the speed of light...

...let's go back to before all these mistakes were made.

//

**[end]**


	8. now or never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve, villanelle, eve, villanelle, eve p.o.v

//

“Who are you, really?”

You've been looking a long time, looking and searching, digging past the layers of yourself – one step forward, two steps back – until you reached the bottom. Until you reached the end of everything.

And it's a bit once upon a time (towering oak trees, too smart and too wise, separation that turns into forever across the ocean) and it's a bit revisionist history (sharp but so witty, witty but so warm, warm but so edgy) and it's a bit of blood and sweat and tears, isn't it? 

But you got there, eventually. It only took some death. It only took some loss. It only took hurting others. It only took sacrifice. It only took all of you, turned inside-out, exposed to the elements and you'd either make it or not.

You'd either live. Or you'd die. No more in-between for a woman like you.

“I'm Eve.”

/

“Oh. Well, hello, Eve.”

She's the same, but not – that's what you think. But you've been fooled before, haven't you? Then again, you've done some thinking since then – more than you like, more than you've had to in a long, long time – and you don't know what you saw when you looked her.

It wasn't her, that's become clear. But you saw something, something jagged where the lips never smiled, as if she hated everything – you, her husband, England, existing at all. She always looked so tired, of more than you could have ever understood, and yet...

...you kind of do understand. You kind of always did.

You found a cousin. Hard-won face, tobacco stained fingers. You ate two meals with them, you asking questions and getting stupid answers; no one missed you, that's the truth, no one ever misses you. Amazing, wonderful you – everyone is an idiot, that's what you say to yourself all the time. Still, you drank homemade vodka, let it burn your throat, and looked at pictures of some family that you lost long before you were even born.

You stole one photo. Tucked in the pocket of your jacket. And every day you hold a match close to it, hoping you'll let it burn. You don't but that's another story.

She nods at you, calm and cool, and you wonder why she found you after all this time. All this time, with you thinking and hunting and killing, all this time where you imagined her dead or desperate, all this time where you'd lay yourself to sleep with daydreams of dipping your tongue into the hole you made in her.

All this time where she is still at the front of your mind... all this time, all this time...

/

No one will ever know how much you have ached. How much you have wished. How much you needed and craved. No one will ever know how hard you tried – to fit, to be better, to make sense, to care more, to care less, to stop feeling, to be less angry, to stop yourself from self-destructing.

She watches you. Cautious. Calculating. Then again, that's always been true. And so you've made a career of studying her, too. How she stands. How she speaks. Where she goes. Where she came from. The who of her, the what of her. Of course, the why is elusive – purposefully, yes, but somehow randomly as well... as if she isn't fully aware of herself either.

Gorgeously incomplete.

You've been wanting to put her pieces together for ages now. Longer than anything else, longer than anyone else – you've been mesmerized, she the snake and you the one charmed. At least, that's how it was before Rome.

Just thinking of the place causes your body to subtly shake, tiny tremors beneath your flesh. Your hands still flex, as if you are still holding that ax. Your back still throbs, as if the wound won't ever heal.

Your heart still trembles. With fearlessness. With sorrow. With an impossible love.

“Who are you? Really?”

She sighs. She closes her eyes. And you are unafraid, she didn't make you that way, you just are. This is who you are. And if not now, then when? If not now, then it'll probably be never.

“Who do you want me to be, Eve?”

Mine. All mine. That's all. Just you. Just me. It's now or never...

/

You've traded names. You've made them up. You've stolen a few. You've cobbled together personalities, taken from a multitude of fictions. You've reveled in the mystery, the enigma of you, and that made the most sense, didn't it?

Until even that bored you. Until you yearned for something out of reach. Until you tried to love and found that to be the biggest mystery. Until you watched Eve crumble to the ground and then you walked away.

You open your eyes. And suddenly she is closer to you.  
You can breathe her in, if you want, and so you do.   
And it's now or never, isn't it? Either she'll kill you or you her or... or...

Her hand presses against your chest, right over your heart, and you marvel at her bravery and her stupidity. You wonder at her grace, at her absolutely perfect disaster of a brain. You are in awe of her, again, always. She's always telling you who she is, really, and so your turn has come.

Who do you want to be? Hmm? What will become of Russian children and drunken nights, of lovesick poetry and Paris, of all the souls you've watched fade into the black, of all the missteps you've made on your way to here, to this moment, to Eve – her hand on you, gaze sure and solid – who will you be once you give it all away?

Maybe it's time you told her who you are. Maybe it's time that you both really met.

“Villanelle. Oksana...”

And Eve's palm is hot. And you swallow. And she doesn't look away.

“...yours.”

/

You've been looking for a long time. Longer than forever. Searching. Digging. And maybe it's time, maybe it's time to stop for a while. Maybe you can finally rest, you with your spinning mind and brand-new body, you with her... for a while... for a while and maybe more...

That's when you can finally kiss her.  
And she kisses you back.

No more in-between for women like the two of you.

//

**[end]**


	9. guesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v. // listened to 'Illusion' by Norma Tanega while jotting this down

//

She's driving fast, faster than you can keep track of. But you guess that's just how it must be – on the run, angry people at your backs, bodies left in your wake – you guess this is just how criminals get out of town.

The sun is hot on your face. You are almost to the point of sweating. But the breeze is cold... why did she get a convertible? She grins over at you, hair whipping around her face, obscuring all but her eyes. And you guess you can't be that mad – not about the breeze, nor the sun, the speed or the circumstances of your leaving...

You guess this is what being a killer is all about.

And she takes your hand in her own, caressing where your veins travel, and it feels nice. It soothes you because you are hurting somewhere deep inside. But then she is gripping you, fingers locked together like she's afraid you will simply disappear, like you'll leave her in the dust. And it hurts. It hurts and hurts and hurts.

Loving her hurts so much, all the damn time.

Still, you wonder if this is love or just infatuation. It feels like love. It also feels a lot like pain. Can it be both? Can you loathe her and adore her simultaneously? Oh, what did Carolyn say... _“why are you and Villanelle so interested in each other?”_

You'll have to ask the woman by your side. You'll have to pick her brain one day, once all this mess is left behind. She's taking you to the cold northwest, far from roads and retribution. You've never been, maybe you've never wanted to go, but why not, right?

God, she's driving so fast. You can feel the force of the air against your chest. That hurts, too. Like the very universe is stealing away your breath, supernovas going off in your lungs and leaving you empty.

And she holds your hand. And it feels good. And it feels terrible.

“I thought you were special.”

Just words floating on the wind, crashing into your ears. Just words said in the heat of the moment. Just another wound to match the one you gave her. Just the truth, isn't it? You thought you were special, too. That you could manage her. That you could keep her. That she'd bend a bit more, shape herself into someone you could handle. That the darkness that surrounds her could take its time with you. 

You just needed more time. 

But she's driving so fast. So very fast. And you can't feel your body anymore. And you don't feel overly warm and you don't feel chilled. You can't feel her hand or the air or anything at all.

So so fast. Too fast. Much too fast. And you guess that's just how it is for someone like her, for someone like you, too.

You guess this is what dying feels like.

//

**[end]**


	10. wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> villanelle p.o.v. // 'Invite Me In' by Wild Ones played a huge part in this thing

//

You wonder how many times you'll do this with her. How many times will she cut you – a knife in your gut, the proverbial slap to your face – and still you return. A bit like a lost dog, that's how you see yourself now, shuffling from pillar to post, all to catch her fathomless eye.

You wonder how many times she'll want you near, toying with knowing you but still stumbling when she gets to the heart of you. Because your heart is a maze, sudden turns and hard walls, can't see over it and can't get out once you are truly in. You've been trapped there for years upon years, after all – if she can't make it, how will you?

You wonder if she dreams of blood. Of those sweet meats, slick and pale on the floor. Of his twitching fingers. You wonder if she dreams of you, of her head between your legs or her hands around your throat. You wonder if you'll ever stop dreaming of her, of watching the light leave her eyes and then bringing her back to life, back to you, stuttering and gasping. You wonder if anything will ever make sense when it comes to the two of you, or will you both perish from this, chasing chasing chasing until you both drop to ground.

You wonder about your mind, if you are as clever as you believe, if you are as wonderful as you claim. Wonderful people aren't alone and you are always alone, one way or another. You sought out affection and so you sliced away obstacles. You sought out companionship and so you tried to right the wrong ways inside your mind – just a little bit, just enough. But changing never fixes anything, does it? You'd be better off alone, that's what you think. Take your pleasure where you can. Take all that you can from anyone you snatch in your talons, rip away their souls – through sex, through death – and gnaw on the leftovers. You wonder why you ever wanted to change in the first place.

You wonder if Eve is back with her husband. You wonder if Anna is happy in heaven now. You wonder, if your mother had lived, would you have turned out differently. You wonder about the man just there – sitting with his legs crossed at the ankle, newspaper loose in his hold, feeling your stare and not knowing if you are into him or just weird – and you wonder about the woman sitting across from you – nursing a coffee, perfume wafting all around, attractive and simple – and you wonder if you could have them both, one after the other, and then slit their necks wide open. Leave them with a smile, that's what you could do and it's been far too long, hasn't it? Far too long since you've stretched your muscles, all animal and no feeling, been bold and brash without anything hanging off your shoulders. It's been far too long since you've just been all that you are.

You wonder how the rest of the world does it. How they keep on going. How they keep on living. You wonder if you ever will understand them – normal people, family people, friends and fucks that last more than a night – and you wonder if you actually want to understand any of them. Why would you? Why would you want to tamp down everything that makes you unique, that makes you special? Because you are special. You are incredible. You are magnificent. And that's how you walk into clubs, into restaurants, that's how you move down sidewalks and along cobblestone roads, that's how you slip in and out of homes, in and out of hotel rooms. You don't need anyone, not anymore. You look into the mirror and see your face, your beautiful face, and you don't feel alone. Not really. Not so much. Because you are special. And special people never feel alone, not really. The universe bends to someone like yourself, a tide forever turning in your direction. You are not the rest of the world, after all – not you, not special and amazing you – you'll always come out on top.

You wonder what Eve would make of you now... and you wonder if you'll ever stop wanting what isn't made for you. Or you for it, as the case may very well be. You wonder and you want and you turn it all off only to do it all over again. You wonder if she has forgotten. You wonder if she misses you. You wonder if she feels alone, too. You wonder if she'd like a letter – maybe two, maybe more – and if she'd write back to you. You wonder what it feels like to be unafraid, truly so, to know that you won't lose anything and that no one can touch you. You wonder if you had kissed her, kissed those tears off her cheek, if it would have been as delicious as the most expensive wine. You wonder if you had just let her go, back to London and boredom and pretty lies, if she would have hated you less. Or loved you more. You wonder if she loves you, too, loves you to distraction and loves you to destruction. You wonder what she wanted from you – the fear, the freedom, all the questions answered – and you wonder if you could have found a better way to tell her. You could have told her everything, one day or eventually. You could have cracked open your skull and let her play around in there. You could have slept soundly and let her take the wheel, let her drive you to safety – whatever that means, you've never known it and you guess you never will. But you could have tried. For her. For yourself. For something unattainable but still so alluring. You wonder if she'll come for you, for old times sake, one more trip into your melee, and you wonder if it'll mean as much as it once did. Or will you both feel adrift as you gaze upon each again, heavy with all you could have had but didn't have the stomach for – you and patience, her and desire.

And you wonder how many times you'll do this with her. Another week. Another year. The rest of this life and into the next one.

And you wonder if you'll ever grow weary. Bored. You wonder if you'll ever comprehend the pull that Eve has upon you, the incessant tug from your chest to hers, the horrible way in which you crave her – and only her – crave her to the ends of the earth.

But there's a knock on your door and you smile into the shadows and every part of you sings, a sweet despairing tune lodged in the marrow, and how could you ever tire of this? Of her? Of whatever havoc she wants to rain down on you? 

You wonder why you ever thought you could.

//

**[end]**


	11. supplication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v.

//

What was once curiosity, perhaps masking deeper longings – 'obsession' is what Niko said, at the end, cuts on his face and a shade of real fear in his eyes – has now turned sour, almost fetid in how it hangs about your whole body, alerting everyone to your horrid single-mindedness.

What was once pure in fantasy is now wicked in reality. That's the long and short of it, isn't it? 

You are wicked. You are wrong. And you can't come back from it now, you've gone too far, you've done far too much – no home, no job, no friends, no husband, nothing nothing nothing.

Nothing but what a bullet carved out of you. That's the long and short of you, isn't it?

/

Somehow, you lived. You choked on hot dust, screamed in agony as you turned over, dragged your body and wept in the sunlight. And had those tourists not been lost, phones out with accents you couldn't place, then you would have melted into the ground and been a footnote among a million lost soldiers.

But somehow, you lived.

Poked and prodded. Asked questions. You remember dreaming, whenever you were lucid. Then you lost track of time, between the drugs and the sorrow, all the hours started to slip away. Still, you lived and you healed and you lied about everything – your name, what happened, confusion mixed with tears and your 'broken' English – until they finally ceased, until they finally left you alone.

Alone but alive. Somehow.

You stared at the wound, red and itchy, and you slid your fingertips over it – gently at first, then firmer, teeth clenching and hissing when it hurt. The discomfort felt right, though. It's a punishment, after all. It's a sentence you've got to serve, penance paid for being so conceited, so full of yourself. 

_For thinking you were special, isn't that right, Eve?_

You stared at your face then, tracing your own lines and flickering over the shadows, and you pressed a bit harder on where she marked you and you sank into that pain, you let it grow sweeter, let it wash over you until you broke out into a cold sweat and you stumbled back to your bed – body still needing time but the mind swirling with a want so alien to you, so desperate and tremulous and overpowering.

Alive, yes... you are absolutely alive now.

/

It doesn't take nearly as long as it probably should.

But that's how she is, impatient and aching, and you did a little digging with what little you had and you pulled a few favors and it was like sending up a flare into the bare night sky – a burning comet just for her to see.

She scopes you out days before contact is made, catching her in glances or in fleeting growls from darkened corners. But soon enough, she draws near to you; nearer and nearer, moth to flame and you truly have no idea which of you is what now – who is the fire, who is to turn to ash? 

And she asks questions, too – how did you survive, how did you get home, do you have a knife on you, maybe a gun – and you don't answer her, leaning hard against this cheap kitchen counter in this cheap apartment on this cheap side of town.

“So, why am I here, Eve?”

You think about killing her. You think about plucking her beautiful eyes out. You think about opening her up again – there's a corkscrew in this drawer, ready for a good twisting. You think about ripping out her tongue or choking her, watching and waiting for all this to end, for all this to surely end the only way it ever can.

Her voice is cold, but her gaze – like always – gives her away. It trails along much too slowly, it hangs on your mouth and on your neck, it lingers so delicately. And you think about all the hate you've stored up, starting with Berlin and building up with all the other messy things you feel and you know exactly why she is here, why you want her here.

To fill up the space she has ripped open in you, if she can, if you will allow it, if anything will ever fill you up again.

You stride over to her and you see her body brace for impact and you beat her the only way you can...

And her lips taste of blood, of heat, of terror dancing with yearning – there's the sea on her tongue, rich with acres of need, and she breathes into you, shuddering an echo of a sigh, and her chilled hands clamp down on your face, fingers working into your hair – and you bite down on tender flesh, lick up the groan of shock and grab her wrists and jerk her touch away, hold that gaze, that endless fucking gaze, and you step back, wipe your mouth and watch her shoulders sag and sink, a ship listing in waters suddenly gone still.

...you best her the only way you know how.

/

One night, she dares to place a kiss to where she shot you. And you backhand her so hard that your hand nearly goes limp in the immediacy of pain, knuckles quaking with this bone-to-bone collision.

Bruises rise up on you, on her, and she holds your hand to her face like she adores you. Like she adores what you've become, takes it as a homage, and wants to thank you for the transformation.

Her eyes glitter in moments like this. Bright and wild. You've seen that look before – you and that ax, arcing through the atmosphere until you found a skull to crack – and you want to destroy her so utterly in moments like this. Take away her pleasure and give it to yourself. Take take take, isn't that what she once said to you, in a forest foggy and green – you want to take her apart and store the pieces inside of yourself, you want to take until there is nothing else left.

You tell her to lay down and she does so without a single word said, legs falling open in supplication. That shining stare has gone hazy now, clouded with desire, and you feel the heady rush of power, of commanding that which used to run circles around you. And her chest heaves with anticipation, ribs rattling and heartbeat like a drum – oh, how she wants – so you move leisurely, ankle to kneecap to the inside of her thigh. You watch her hands turn to fists, cotton sheets straining in her hold, and you grin when your teeth find purchase in her skin, when you tug and tear enough to leave marks.

And you think of killing her.  
And you think of owning her.

You think of so much when you are fucking her, burying your tongue inside of her, making her stay as still as possible but letting her be as loud as she likes – which is very. You think of so much when you grind against her, the edges of her hipbone causing you to pant and jerk like a dog in heat, ignoring her parted lips and ecstasy-blown eyes.

And you think of leaving her.  
And you think of needing her.

You think of so much when you hurt her, imprints and impressions, an artist and her work – Villanelle in three pieces, deep lines in red and kisses in black-and-blue. You think of so much when she does whatever you say, happiest on her hands and knees, and for a delicious second, cupping her jaw as her eyelids flutter and close, you feel whole again.

And you think of hating her.

You suck the scar into your mouth, serenaded by the sound of your name tumbling relentlessly from her lips, and you wind your hand upwards, over her breast and shoulder and into her hair and tangle yourself there – a pull, a warm gasp, the minute twitch of your hips – and the scent of her arousal is surrounding you and you think that this might be everything you've been missing, everything you've been afraid of all along... and then you feel it, feather-light but definitely there, the soft push of her palm to the back of your head, and you know that she knows better, but maybe that's the point.

You twist the strands of her hair tight, tight enough to bring about a grimace to her face, and you lift your body away from hers and you hold her there. You could keep it like this for the rest of the night, looming over her as she remains static, and maybe she wants it this way. Maybe you both want it this way, a mix of wrong and right, of denial and then wondrous release. Of pleasure and of pain. And you think that this might be everything you've been missing, everything you've been chasing all this time, trapped in the air between the two of you – always.

And you think of loving her.

And so you do.

//

**[end]**


	12. i can be what you like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> villanelle p.o.v. // thanks to King Princess for the title & the vibe

//

Heart-shaped tokens have never been your thing, bent metal and garnet stones worn around necks; you've left better gifts with your teeth into their flesh, tough but tender so they never forget.

This is why Konstantin and you understand each other, right? You are both romantics, in the end.

He for family, leaving you a gun and a car and some weak-willed advice.  
You for all the women you adore and who then let you down.

And you lay down that night, sweating yourself right out of that red outfit and exactly 56 miles from Rome, in a hotel bath with water growing tepid. And you dip your face under, just for a moment, let the dust run from your hair. And you imagine wounds like bookmarks – holding your place, here's the story you'll come back to one day... someday...

...when you're good and ready to read the end.

/

She'd look good in that blue dress. And she'd like the taste of this dish, chili bite and rich on the tongue. Oh, yes, she'd sleep well in these sheets – cool and soft, like sand first thing in the morning. She'd laugh, deep and short and from the chest, when that man trips and falls and curses a busted, bloody nose.

Both of you have seen much, much worse. Everything after just seems tame.

You'd lean over and place your thumb against her lip, let her get used to your touch – like this, this time just like this – and she'd turn that dark gaze onto you, obsidian shock to the system, and you'd grin and promise her anything.

Anything she wants. Anything anything anything.

**_“You want a trinket or two or five thousand? Done. You want to rip the world apart and bathe in the chaos? Let me tear it down with you. You want to hurt me, pin me to the ground and split me open again? I'll hand you the knife, I've kept it warm for you all this time...”_ **

You blink and you are somewhere else. You blink and there's some strange body next to you, boring and boneless after you've fucked them. You blink and you remember that the one thing she wanted you couldn't give her.

Anything but that. Anything but leaving you.

Oh, yes, you couldn't give her that.

/

_Dear darling Eve,_

_How's the hole in your side? Does it hurt as much as when you stabbed me? I bet you're mad, spitting fire and itching for a fight. I didn't follow you this time. I didn't come running this time. I wanted to, yes, but I have left you alone. You want to be alone, right? Back in London, back with that man, back to before you met me... isn't that right?_

_I didn't make it to Alaska. I still dream of it, though. I dream of your hair, fanned out upon layers of snow – a dangerous little angel. Do you like the snow? I read that it snows in Connecticut. Yes, yes, I know all the things you never told me. You read up on me, I did the same. I'm no fool._

_Though I suppose I am, right? Because I'm writing this and I might even send it. I might see if you'd like to change your mind. Now that you've had a moment or two. Now that we've both gotten angry and taken it out on each other. I could forgive you, just so you know._

_Can you... Would you..._

/

You cut your fingertip on the paper. Small and neat. You suck it into your mouth and close your eyes and imagine Eve's tongue wrapping around this sweet bit of pain.

You can wait to find out the conclusion. You can bend the corner. Come back later. When you are good and ready. When you can give her what she wants. When it's not all bullets and bad decisions. When she's calmed down and realized what you have always known.

You can wait. You want to wait. Until you're ready. Until you're good.

/

The top is down and salty breeze takes over.  
An envelope flutters on the dashboard.  
You drive faster and watch it fly.

//

**[end]**


	13. white shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v. // inspired by 'Giving Up' by Whitney

//

You treat her ribs like a ladder, climbing ever higher, and the peak is her breath coming out in stilted waves. Like someone in need of air. Like someone dying of want.

It's nice to be in charge, it's nice to be the one who pulls her strings so decidedly.

/

The barrel is wet against her stomach. Why do you both always gravitate to that space? The soft underbelly, where guts and gumption live, oh that's right... oh that's why...

“Aren't we even yet?”

She sounds tired. She sounds like a girl with a broken heart. You hate her almost as much as you love her. Because you do love her. You love her as much as you hate her. It's all very circular and maddening, these feelings, and you're never sure which will win out: your need to have her or your need to hurt her.

She closes her eyes. Oh, she's gorgeous and horrible. You pull the trigger and the click echoes just as loudly as a gunshot might, just as deafening.

“Get on your knees.”

And she drops to the floor like she's been waiting her whole goddamn life for someone to tell her what to do.

/

“Pass me the sugar.”

She's making a tart, wants to sprinkle some over the top – pears and almonds, flaky and buttery in the margins – and you nudge the bowl over to her. She hums like an old radio, vague melodies traveling from her brain to her tongue, and something a lot like affection dances around your heart.

When did that happen, you wonder, and why do you like it?

Because this can never last. Because she cannot run forever. Because you cannot keep changing your name. Because the money will run out. Because maybe they've paid each other back enough but that doesn't cross out all their debts. Because death always calls for more blood, more tears shed, more more more more and then some.

Death is a lot like her. A lot like you, too.

You fuck her up against the kitchen counter, sticky sweet on your lips, and her flour-dusted fingers leave white shadows in your hair.

//

**[end]**


	14. a beautiful day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> villanelle p.o.v. // angst & death offered up with no explanation

//

She stretches and preens, just a bit, as the sun bathes her. Golden on her crown, bronze edges to her skin, and the unfocused waves of blue lap at her feet – she knows just how she looks. One man trips over himself to get her attention, shorts sticking to his thighs as saltwater soaks through and outlines his obvious interest.

In another life, maybe. On another night, once upon a time, why not? 

But this is her moment, eyes shut, and his voice turns into white noise and someone else is speaking to her. It's a little rough, a little sarcastic... it's a little frazzled, this voice ricocheting around her head...

She smiles and tiny, insignificant wrinkles fade from her brow. He flutters his fingers over her arm and she snaps his wrist. His scream sounds like seagulls calling and cutting their way through the sky.

Her eyes reopen. What a beautiful day.

/

“I heard there was an incident.”

She looks over, briefly, and then goes back to her magazine, bare feet idly moving to some inner tune.

“Hmm?”  
“You heard me.”  
“What kind of incident? Was there a shark attack? You know, I've wanted to see one happen and I miss it every single time.”  
“No, more like a man who had some bones broken.”

She flaps one of her hands in the air, gaze still trained on whatever article has gathered her attention.

“Oh, that.”  
“Yes. That.”

She shrugs. She shrugs through the sighs and put-upon expression on the other person's face. The magazine is snatched from her grasp and now things are decidedly familiar – paternal annoyance and petulant pout.

His stare is blank but she knows that look. She's seen it about a million times over. It's horribly tedious and he knows it.

“He touched me. I was enjoying myself, just sunbathing and thinking and he touched me. I did not give him permission to do so.”

He blinks at her. Twice or more. And then tosses the magazine back into her lap, walking to the bar and pouring himself two fingers of expensive rum. She bought that bottle yesterday, sand peppering her legs and smelling of coconut as tourists shuffled around her. She bought it, turning it this way and that in the light, umber where the sunset reflected...

She heard that voice then, too. Judging. Amused. Taunting from some unknown distance, tempting as always, and so she bought it. She wanted to drink it first, though. She wanted to drink it and daydream about – 

“You are ready for tonight?”

Now she's the one left blinking and she swallows down everything she'd rather be doing and nods her head, bored and back to her magazine.

“Of course.”

/

“Should I wear something slinky? I have that indigo number, makes my eyes pop...”

That voice in her head murmurs, too soft to truly hear, but it sounds like vague consent. She'll take it that way then, shimmying out of her sundress and into a shower. And she feels her eyelids flutter to a close as hot water flows over her shoulders, asks to be caressed and so the water turns into palms sliding down.

Breath catches in her lungs, painful and aching, and she shudders once the heat makes its way onto her hips and she feels like she is being wrapped up in an embrace. And water runs over her face and it feels a bit like she is crying, though she hasn't cried at all – not since Amsterdam – but it feels that way and so she imagines that everything that rests inside of her is now happening on the outside.

The tears. The touches. The hold from behind. That voice.

She imagines that Eve is with her and that'll have to be enough to last for a lifetime.

/

She keeps it simple but still creative.

Chatting up a bored waitress, a little flirty and a little bit of commiserating over tired feet and gross old men, and then drinks in hand. Letting them pass around, letting fate take a chance, and then one woman is holding her stomach, making excuses to go to the bathroom.

She laughs at a joke not that funny and then minutes pass and she wanders away, stopping here and there to say a word, to acknowledge a compliment on her outfit or her smile – god, people are so predictable – and then she says she is leaving, makes a show of it, waiting for a gold band to no longer mean so much when faced with an attractive young woman about to slip away into the night.

“Going so soon?”

He is somewhere over 40, temples burning off from brown to gray, and his suit fits nicely on his body. The definition of calm distinction, dapper but not showy. She gave him just the right amount to come willingly, but still as little as possible so that no one else could tell.

“Perhaps. Where's Mrs. Wittmann?”  
“In the ladies. She's always had a sensitive system.”  
“And where are you supposed to be?”

He grins then, going from man to child, and that move makes it all the better when she glances around – valets growing lazy, doorman messing around with the coat-check girl, no one else about at all, just like she knew it would be – and she leans in close, kissing his jaw and moving him into the shadows and he grips her to him so easily.

Her tongue is in his mouth when she kills him, the sharpest of elements in between the ribs, and she keeps him there, fist in his short hair, swallows up his cry of agony and despair, eats his demise like dessert. 

He blinks once, goes glassy, and she shuffles him further into the darkness. 

/

“Where did you put him?”  
“Into the garbage bags, then into the trash. Just like you wanted.”  
“And no one saw you?”  
“Am I an amateur, hmm? Don't insult me.”

She wipes her mouth. She washes her hands. She laments the speckle of blood on the hemline and then begins cutting the garment into pieces.

“You look tired.”  
“I am tired.”  
“Mmm. Okay, get some rest. We leave tomorrow.”

And then silence, blissful and deafening silence. The kind you can sink into. The kind you can indulge in. And she is tired, arms strained with lifting dead weight and feet bitching after walking miles instead of taking a taxi, only calling for one about three blocks from her hotel. She sat at a bar, giggling at stupid stories and made up some of her own – a good cover needs witnesses, after all – and then tipsy and sweet as she weaved her way to the curb and left.

Konstantin took care of the man's car, one way or another, she doesn't ask too many questions these days. They both do what they do and get paid and then move on. If he watches her a bit more than he used to, that's nothing to her. Let him worry, let him fret, let him wonder if his family is safely tucked away or not – she likes to keep him on his fat Russian toes.

The wig comes off last. Shredded like the dress. Another persona dismantled and destroyed. 

Now, as one in the morning turns into two, she falls into bed. Lights off. Sheets cool and smooth, deep enough to catch all her sighs and she cannot stop her arm from reaching out, fingertips stretching for something in the distance – a moment lost, risks that didn't pay off and leaving one bitter – and she imagines Eve reaching back.

Taking her hand, tugging her near, lips marking a trail from elbow to collarbone to temple, and then they would sleep, tangled up in one another. Eve would let her sleep like this room was a tomb, ticking off the hours by the length of their spines, the whole world crumbling as they remain... steadfast in their devotion... their love a monument, puzzled over by scholars for all of eternity.

_“How tired are you?”_   
_“Very.”_   
_“Would you like for me to end it all? Shut it all up for you?”_   
_“Yes. Yes, just you and me and no one else ever again.”_

A kiss to her forehead. A leg slipped gently between her own.

_“Will you grow tired of me?”_   
_“Never.”_   
_“Even now? Even though I am -”_   
_“No more talking. Please.”_

She squeezes her eyes shut. Tight. Tighter still. She imagines Eve relenting, giving in with a huff of laughter and pinch to her side, teeth nipping at neck flesh. That's better. That's much better.

_“Are you tired now?”_   
_“I could be convinced to wake up a little...”_

Eve is silk against her, light and teasing, rousting her from thoughts of slumber and into a space of wanting. A graze there, a sharp sting elsewhere, leading to the tip of the tongue gliding surely over her clit and – oh oh oh... hips rolling up and holding, straining, seeking, fitfully begging...

...reaching out, needing, desperate and overwhelming...

“Eve, please...”

The orgasm rattles along her bones, takes up residence in her pounding heart, wrecks her brain.

“...I love you, I love you... please don't...”

_Don't stop. Don't go._

/

It carries on this way for such a long, long time. Jobs here and there. Money earned and then spent. Hotels and inns, new names and forgettable faces. And death, the only constant in her life – by her hand, at her feet, surrounding her at every hour.

It used to feel better. It used to fill up the minutes that once drove her crazy. It used to mean more, a chance to shine and standout; it used to shore up some kind of longing that lingered from another time, a yearning from a girl who was killed off forever ago.

Now, it is just a job.

It's not fun. It's not dull. It just is what it is.

Instead, she lives for the moments where nothing is going on, left to her own devices and she wanders around cities, around towns, drifting through shops and markets, trailing into forests where sunlight causes leaves to turn an iridescent green and she can smell the moss crushed beneath her shoes. She slinks away from everyone and everything and loses herself out here. She lays down in the grass, stares at the sky, and holds her breath for minutes at a time.

Holds it and hopes to see if there is a god. Holds it and hopes to feels half of what she has done to others. Holds it and hopes for oblivion. And oblivion looks a lot like absolution.

And absolution looks a lot like Eve.

_“Is this self-pity? From you?”_

She chokes on the oxygen, coughs until her lungs hurt, but she is grinning. A sweet, soft grin as the world returns to her body.

_“No. This is me, trying to understand.”_   
_“Understand what? Why you do what you do?”_   
_“Maybe.”_

She presses her palms into the ground. Feels the dirt buried below the clover and the weeds. Digs her nails in and relishes the chill of soil hidden from the day.

_“Do you think it'll change anything, all of this you are doing?”_   
_“I don't know.”_   
_“Do you think it will bring me back to life?”_

Her head hurts suddenly. She digs her nails in harder. No longer cool, only hot, too hot everywhere. And there it is, the dream turns into something darker and only ghostly whispers are left.

_“Do you miss me? Do you wish you hadn't shot me...?”_

She wants to hold her breath again. But her chest won't comply, shaking and stuttering with a sorrow that never, ever fucking leaves.

_“Do you care now? Do you feel more now? Do you feel utterly broken? But isn't that what a psychopath does... ache for everything but never able to give anything...”_

And she feels it, just like before, a hand cupping her cheek and she leans into it, leans into it and waits to be destroyed. 

_“Do you think I'd return to you after what you did to me?”_

And she curls into the earth, sadness finally barreling up and out of her mouth, screaming into summer's last flowers until they wither and fall down.

/

The challenges are few. The risks are easier to take. Konstantin is wary, getting older with every second, and suggests that perhaps they have reached the end of their business together. His daughter is going to leave him soon and his wife's back is beginning to falter, the woman needs more care than a nurse can give and he could retire now if he wanted to.

“Fine. Do what you like.”

He stares and stares. And cares, he cares so much. Against all better judgment, he cares and puts his arm around her shoulders. She thinks it would be nice to be embraced, it's been far too long since anyone has done that and meant it. But all she does is look away and then shrug him off.

He sighs and steps away.

“Promise me something okay?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Don't try and die so much.”

She huffs out a laugh and rolls her eyes, but says nothing all the same.

He smiles but his eyes don't buy a thing she is selling and now she wonders how much has been revealed, what he has seen from the sidelines of their business together, in all the years he has watched over her and tricked her and left her behind for his real family.

She wonders if he has been trying to save her all along.

But he doesn't pry, doesn't ask, and she doesn't say a thing and he walks away – for the last time – and now she is alone. Completely and totally alone.

And she looks down at her hands, looks at the lines embedded there, and imagines a million other possibilities, a million other lives she could have lead – where Konstantin didn't even exist, where she stayed in prison and slowly rotted away... or maybe where she had all the normal things and then grew old and slept her way into heaven...

And she should have told him, she should have said, “Konstantin, you are wrong... it's not that I'm trying to die... I'm just not trying to live.”

But the lines of their universe have come to an end, in this life and in every other one as well and the time for honesty, well... it just slips away.

/

_“Did you really love me?”_   
_“Yes. As much as I knew how to.”_

The Eve in her mind is just as tenacious as the real Eve, just as stubborn and cold, just as alluring, too. But this Eve relents – eventually – and they can talk like this, talk like they never allowed themselves to in that other time and along those other lifelines.

_“Is that why I am here? Because you love me still?”_   
_“Probably so.”_

She tucks the gun in the waistband of her pants. She looks at her face in the mirror. Lovely, like always.

_“You should have turned around. You should have stayed with me.”_   
_“I know. I wish I had.”_   
_“I could have forgiven you... I was always looking for ways to forgive you...”_

She cuts up her cards, burns her passports. She drinks the last of the wine, tossing the empty bottle onto the bed. She zips up her jacket and turns out the light.

“Can you forgive me now?”

The words do not echo, just hover in the air, and she waits for an answer. Something. Anything at all to let her know that it's possible, that Eve could have let her back in, that a bullet in the back and a blade in the gut don't mean so much, not when it comes to the two of them.

And so she closes her eyes. And the Eve there takes her hand, thumb caressing the knuckles, sad smile to greet her. 

_“I already have.”_

And Villanelle smiles in return. Smiles and walks out of this room. Strides to her next target and she draws her weapon and watches his eyes go wide. Listens to the yells, the shouting, all of it a symphony in her ears. She watches the blood spread over his chest – right to the heart, just like she was taught – and she bares her teeth to the whole of the universe, daring it to do its worst, oh so ready for what's next.

And she feels heat tear through her gorgeous flesh.  
And she feels coppery warmth bubble up on her tongue.  
And she feels the marble floor rush up to her knees, then to the rest of her.

And Villanelle smiles and reaches out, arm heavy but she is nothing if not determined, and this hotel lobby disappears and there's Eve – on the dusty ground, waiting in the ruins for Villanelle to return, fingertips dancing into her own – and she closes her eyes.

_“I came back for you.”_

And Eve's grin is delicious, gaze penetrating, and Villanelle feels faint at the sight of her, feels everything all at once, and holds onto Eve's hand a bit tighter and waits for it... waits for it... waits for it...

_“What took you so long?”_

...and Villanelle laughs until it hurts, until she can only hurt, until her eyes stay closed and oh yes, what a beautiful day this is... what a beautiful day indeed.

//

**[end]**


	15. one last time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eve p.o.v. // thanks to the new album by Crumb // death happens...

//

Handle no longer heavy in your hands, you study her face – this one last time, this one breathless and perfect moment – and along the pale expanse, you find all the lives that could have been.

The life where she snuffed you out long ago, a gnat to be swatted down, guts pushed out between her fingers. The life where you drew her blood and she bled out underneath you, revenge like a hot blanket over your shoulders as you drove the point in harder, deeper, deadlier. The life where she kisses you and something wild uncoils in your stomach, straining at your skin as she touches you and so you touch her in return, eager and angry and bowled over by lust. The life where you never knew of her, a dead man and a drugged up escort of no matter to you, and you trade lunches with Bill and you joke with Elena and you go home to Niko... and you do that again... and you do that again... and again.

She stares at you, impassive but still so willing, and you wonder if she considers her being caught and not fighting as payback. For manipulation. For murder. For the world you once had now left in ruins.

You almost laugh out loud. In ruins, yes, that's where she left you.

“You don't feel anything?”

You asked once, on that bed, her expression as soft as freshly washed sheets – the kind you want to caress, the kind you want to cover you up – and she nearly had you. She nearly fucking had you.

“Eve...”  
“Come on. For old times sake.”

She smiles, elegant except for the way it doesn't reach her eyes. Unreachable. Impenetrable. How many words have you used to describe her? Fascinated from afar and desperate to get closer. Loving – yes, loving to distraction – the thrill of running after her, of admiring her, of all the ways her energy seeped into you and gave you a rush. Smoking never fully took and harder stuff isn't your thing, but oh...Villanelle was the best addiction.

Was. Is. Not for much longer.

“I feel things...”

And you lean into her, a parody of some other instance, you and a blade and she against a wall. Her hand slips around your waist. Easy and comfortable. Like always.

“...when I'm with...”

You drag your nose along her neck, sniff out her pulse and something intangible – something only she has and you want to soak it up, drink it up now before it's too late – and you hear her sigh, a delicate little sound, just the tiniest bit helpless, and you grin into the edges of her jaw.

“...you.”

You close your eyes and place your lips to her cheek. She presses into you, against her will or so it feels – stuttering movement, shaking resolve – and you think of those other lives, of all the ways you two could have met or not met, all the ways the two of you could have ended or began.

“I feel things when I'm with you, too.”

The words cost you nothing, not now, and saying them changes nothing, too. You feel hate. You feel sadness. You feel toxic and terrible about yourself. You feel sweet rage. You feel cold and lonely. You feel longing and desire. You feel unafraid, just like you told her.

And so you push the knife forward, into her once more, and this time you hold it fast. Hold it fast and watch, watch her face, waiting for something, something you can barely define or understand. And blood slips past her lips – lips you never felt on you – and it runs down her chin and you that's where you kiss her next, a sip of her life in your system.

She's better than wine. Or worse. Or much much worse.

And she topples into you, arm still snug about you, and she breathes heavily and she groans and the two of you slowly descend to the floor and there you stay, in this mockery of an embrace – she the dying damsel and you the hero, seconds too late to save her. She flutters and fades gently and you watch her eyes, watch her soul slip away, and she watches you, too.

Until you are living without a soul as well. Just like she used to.

One gift to suit another. Maker of a new mantle, a child in your honor – the killer is killed and now the killer is you.

And you feel things, too. Glorious, horrible things. Final things. And you kiss her forehead, cradle her face in your hands, and you soak her up. One more time. One last time.

Just one last time.

//

**[end]**


	16. because you've missed this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle POV // Season 3 // drabble // "It was pink champagne, light and airy layers covered in an exquisite buttercream and topped with cherries."

/ /

It was pink champagne, light and airy layers covered in an exquisite buttercream and topped with cherries. The cherries were soaked in pink champagne as well. Tart with a hint of effervescence. Wakes up the tongue every single time.

Of course, it's a bit ruined now. Sloped and sliding down, one piece missing from the puzzle, and starting to melt in this Spanish summer heat. Flecked with darker shades now, too, as if someone had accidentally shook a paint brush nearby.

Tiny points of shocking red. Blood red. It's not yours. It is rarely yours and you'd like to keep it that way for however long you continue to live. Which you plan on living for a long, long time.

Even now.

Even with the guests gone, screaming into the driveway and stumbling in fear.  
Even with a dead bride on the floor about fifty feet away, eyes empty and face slack.  
Even with the cool, calm gaze of a gun barrel upon your head.

Because it's impossible not to want to live and breathe and soak up the rush of seeing Eve after all this time. Because you thought she was dead and part of you dealt with that as best you could – _yes, I shot her, and yes, she refused my offer, and yes, maybe I was rash but honestly, what else could be done?_

Because you hate her, oh so much, and yet you feel strangely proud. Proud that she lived. Proud that you still must take up space in her mind. Proud that she found you. Again. 

Because you love her, oh so much. Love the look on her face – capable, deadly, peaceful – and love that you made that possible for her. Love that she is tainted by you. Shaped by you.

And sure, there's a woman growing cold on the floor behind you. A sweet, gorgeous woman who took your story and believed it to be true. Your bride – _what a thing to say!_ \- your bride gave you all she could, from clothes to money to a pretty bed to fuck her in...

...but you know love isn't sweet, not at all like the dead woman in the expensive white dress thought love to be.

Love is a bullet, tearing through the muscle. Love is a knife, plunged into the gut.  
Love is terror. Love is maddening. Love is messy.

Love is Eve and this gun, pointing right at you.

And you were foolish to think otherwise, even for a second. So, you do what you always do – you smile, as if this was your plan all along, and cross your legs comfortably. You swipe one finger through blood-dappled frosting and then slowly suck it from your flesh.

Your finger pops out of your mouth, body thrumming with fury and lit by desire. 

“So...,” and you take note of the flutter of a smirk at the corner of Eve's lips, “...what now, Eve?”

Because you've missed this.

You've missed this oh so much.

//

**[end]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by that shot of a cake, tales of a wedding, and 'Nobody Does It Better' by Carly Simon.   
> All mistakes are mine. Enjoy.


End file.
